


Falling For You

by GreedIsGreen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, An experimental use of tenses, Attempted Murder, Drug Addiction, F/M, Lies, Manipulation, Mental Health Issues, Murder, Older Man/Younger Woman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-15 19:03:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13619733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreedIsGreen/pseuds/GreedIsGreen
Summary: Ascending the steep stone stairs to the three-story Victorian, Catelyn Tully Stark’s gait is deft and determined. The climb to her sister’s home will not defeat her. Her face is set in a grimace, cheeks chapped and auburn hair in disarray from the winter wind. Sweat beads at her brow despite the frozen air and she pants, choking down the cloying scent of tar with each breath, because of course Lysa would choose today of all days to re-pave the winding drive to her home! For all the times that her sister espoused to love her family, Catelyn couldn’t help but wonder if such sentiments apply to herself as well.





	1. Chapter 1

Ascending the steep stone stairs to the three-story Victorian, Catelyn Tully Stark’s gait is deft and determined. The climb to her sister’s home will not defeat her. Her face is set in a grimace, cheeks chapped and auburn hair in disarray from the winter wind. Sweat beads at her brow despite the frozen air and she pants, choking down the cloying scent of tar with each breath, because of course Lysa would choose today of all days to re-pave the winding drive to her home! For all the times that her sister espoused to love her family, Catelyn couldn’t help but wonder if such sentiments apply to herself as well. 

The grade of the cliff is arduous, and there are no handrails on this path to the house, so Cat clutches at her purse while her practical heels wobble with each step, silently cursing her sister. If only there were another way, but unfortunately, the only choice is to lean on Lysa and Petyr’s kindness. So even as the urge to turn back tempts her, Cat swallows her pride, placing one very tired leg after the other — up and up and up. At least she’s getting her exercise in.

The door to the house opens just as Cat reaches the top, completely out of breath from the hike, but doing her best to hide it and her annoyance at being forced to take such an inconvenient route.

Lysa’s arms are outstretched, her smile sickly sweet as she greets her sister with an over enthusiastic bear hug. “Caaaaaat!” The vowel stretches to an unnatural pitch, causing Cat to cringe as it is bellowed into her ear. “Oh, my sweet sister! It’s been too long! Too long!” she exclaims.

“Lysa,” Cat returns warmly, narrowly extricating herself from Lysa’s too tight grip, doing her best to smile when they are face to face again. “It has, it really has. Thank you again for doing this. It’s just so rare that Ned and I get any time to ourselves, and when he surprised me with a trip to Pentos for Valentine’s… Well, I couldn’t say no to that,” she half-laughs. “I just wish he had planned a little better around the kids. Then again, I guess that’s half what a wife does — pick up after her husband’s blunders,” she says with a joking roll of her eyes.

Lysa beams with a sorry attempt at a humble brag. Or maybe it was just a brag-brag. It’s hard to tell with Lysa. “Oh, I wouldn’t know. Petyr is so on top of everything. I never have to lift a finger around here.” Then she leans in conspiratorially with a naughty giggle, “Well, except for _that_ finger.”

Oh dear lords save me. 

“How lucky for you,” Cat grits out through her smile before changing the subject away from her brother-in-laws _finger_. “Honestly, I would never have dreamed of imposing on you with this, but Edmure’s place was so packed with all the boys; and with Arya at military school, Sansa would have been alone in the house. While I trust Sansa a far throw more than any of the others, she’s still just a teenager.”

“Don’t worry about Sansa,” cajoles Lysa as she pats Cat’s arm. “She’ll be safe and sound with us here.” But the smile on her lips lacks warmth, and there is a sinister gleam in her eyes that sets alarm bells ringing. Cat crushes her own apprehension before it rises to the surface. It’s only for a few days. What could possibly go wrong in that time? “Speaking of… Where is your darling daughter?” Lysa asks, peeking over Cat’s shoulder.

“Oh!” Cat turns to examine the rocky descent leading down and down and down. “I swear she was right behind me, but she dragged so much luggage along I refused to carry it. I swear,” she asks with that light-hearted mother-to-mother tone, “how many clothes does a teenage girl need for a three day weekend?”

“Oh! As though you weren’t just as bad at that age!” chuckles Lysa. “But look at you! You are chilled to the bone! Come inside and have some tea. I’ll send Petyr out to help Sansa. And before you go, you absolutely must see Robin! He’s gotten so big!” she gloats, steering them into the house arm-in-arm.

Damn it, Sansa. So much for a quick drop off and depart. This display is just the situation Cat wanted to avoid. Now she’ll be stuck here half an hour playing a guest to Lysa’s vanity. Maybe the tea will at least be tolerable.

* * *

The clouds outside cast a drab cover over the valley below, and Lysa grimaces from her window as they thicken to an ever deepening grey. Valentine’s Day is supposed to happy and sunshine-y! A celebration of love! Not whatever _this_ is. At least, she has her Petyr. Oh! It took her so long to wear him down, to make him see just how perfect they were for each other. And while the gods had not seen fit to bless them with children, she still has sweet Robin from her first marriage, and Petyr positively dotes on the boy. That’s enough for her. It has to be now that the change is upon her. 

A hiss from behind grabs her attention. Oh, not again! The soup on the stove is boiling over, and Lysa rushes over to lower the heat and remove the pot. _Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!_ She stamps her foot and wants to cry, but sucks back the tears. Lunch is ruined. Again. She tries so hard to be a good wife and mother, but somehow it always goes belly up. 

She shoves the pot into the sink, soup sloshing over the rim, and opens the pantry to retrieve the oatmeal. No one except her eats this tasteless gruel, so it's the perfect place to stash her pills. The klonopin bottle reveals itself with a quick shake, and oats fly as it’s freed. Flat brown grains coat the floor and the counter, but she doesn’t have the wherewithal to care, just needing the comfort that two little blue pills provide. She gulps them down without water, and retreats from the world.

“Aunt Lysa!”

Damn it. Can’t I have a moment of peace? As if this day couldn’t get worse, _she_ is lurking about — yet another sour note. The walking, talking replica of my perfect fucking sister. It was bad enough having to be polite to Cat yesterday. Dealing with Sansa and her simpering smiles and her _pleases_ and her _thanks yous_ as she pretends to be a _lady_ , makes me want to vomit, to claw off her pretty face, and yank her bald. I am no fool; I see the wolf in sheep’s clothing. The way she drops what she is doing whenever my Petyr is nearby. And Petyr, silly naive Petyr, claims it doesn’t happen, that it’s all in my head. But I know what I see. I am not blind to her preference for him. I never should have agreed to take the girl. She is nothing but a blight in my eye, just like her mother.

“Aunt Lysa!” The yell is closer this time, and now the interaction is unavoidable.

A resigned sigh escapes her. It’s just for the weekend. Then, the bitch will be gone, and Petyr will be all mine again. “I’m in the kitchen!” she finally responds.

A bouncy mass of red hair rounds the corner, and Lysa resists the urge to grab for her scissors. “Aunt Lysa, have you seen my sketchbook?” Sansa asks, concern dotting her too perfect face. Aren’t teenagers supposed to have pimples? I certainly suffered the ailment.

But Lysa’s face is a mimicry of chagrin. “Afraid not, dear.” _Not since I threw it into the fireplace last night_. She had picked it up from where it was left to flip through in a fleeting fancy and was disgusted by the contents within. Images of nude men and women — pornography! Absolutely appalling! What is Cat thinking, letting the girl draw such filth?! Well, she set that to rights — into the flames and out of her house!

The news does nothing to ease the girls concerns, and tears fill Sansa’s eyes, her nose turning red. “Oh god, what am I gonna do? My anatomy project was in there. I’ve been working on it for weeks,” she cries, hot streams falling freely down her cheeks as her fists ball at her sides.

 _Good, you little harlot._ But Lysa steps up to comfort her regardless, wrapping her in a motherly hug, completely unrepentant for the actions she took that led them here. “It will be okay,” she soothes, her fingers stroking over that coppery red she hates so vehemently. “I’m sure if you explain, your teacher will give you an extension.”

“No,” Sansa sobs into her shoulders, “she won’t. Ms. Maggie is strict about timelines and we were assigned this almost six months ago!” Great racking sobs fill Lysa’s ears like music as Sansa shakes in her embrace, and the tiniest unseen smile lifts her cheeks as she squeezes the girl tighter. So happy is she at Sansa’s unhappiness, the entrance of her beloved goes unheard.

“What’s this?” asks Petyr, brows furrowing as he absorbs the scene.

Lysa’s smile falters, eyes shooting open. “Oh! It’s nothing you need worry about!”

But Sansa pushes her away in an unusual act of petulance. “It’s not nothing!” she sob-yells. “Uncle Petyr, have you seen my sketchbook?”

“Not since yesterday. I set it by the fireplace when we brought up your things. Is it not there?” he asks, side-eyeing his wife. Almost as if he knows what she did. Lysa’s heart pounds erratically. He doesn’t know. He couldn’t. Her vision spins, and she steadies herself with a white-knuckled grip on the chair behind her.

“It wasn’t there. I checked. I checked everywhere!” Sansa whines. And even with her face blotchy and nose runny, her eyes hold an unmatched brilliancy. Lysa wants to scratch them out just for looking at Petyr. The bitch. The _whore_. “I’m going to fail my art project if I don’t find it!”

“Now, now.” Lysa bites her tongue when Petyr’s hands grasp and rub reassuringly along the tops of Sansa’s arms. “I’m sure we can fix this.” But Lysa cannot hear his words over the tormented begging inside her own head.

Stop that! Stop touching her! You’re not supposed to touch her! _You’re mine!_

The burnt soup on the stovetop has filled the room with noxious fumes that send Lysa’s stomach churning. She is going to retch if he doesn’t stop. Then, the caress ceases, and the pit at her insides loosens; she breathes a relieved sigh when he turns to her, his wife. His wife whom he loves. Yes. Yes, that’s right.

“I actually came in here to tell you that I need to head into town. Gerold just called and said your Valentine’s present is ready — just in time, too.” And the smile Petyr graces her melts her heart, but the world caves in with his next sentence. “I’ll just take Sansa with me. We can pick up a new sketchpad for her.”

“Oh my god! Really?!” Sansa’s face erupts with hope, her remaining tears leaving wet splotches on his fine blue shirt when she jumps between the couple to hug him. “Oh, Uncle Petyr, you’re the best!” Sansa is running up the stairs to grab her coat before Lysa can crush her under heel, and Petyr is a picture of self-satisfaction.

 _No no no._ This won’t do.

Lysa’s mind races, searches for something to grip on to. “But it’s Valentine’s Day today! And- and there’s storm rolling in! It’s not safe! The roads!” Oh, gods I really will retch. Please, don’t go. Not today, and not with _her_.

“Oh, my darling wife,” Petyr coos seductively, his hands slinking around her waist in that way she likes best. Why, oh why must I be so weak for him? The warmth of his hands, the tickle of his cologne causes a slow spread of goosebumps to break out, the hair on her head to stand on end. He tilts her face to look at him then, his eyes piercing and dark. “It’ll be hours yet before the snow falls. I’ll take the Range Rover if you’re so worried.”

Fisting her hands in his shirt, “Okay. If- if you must,” she says, unable to hide the dejection in her voice. He’s going to go, but maybe there’s another way. “Take Robin with you! He would love a trip to town.”

“I thought you wanted this trip to be quick,” teases Petyr. “You know if we take him along he’ll demand to go by the toy store.” Then, pinching her chin between his index and thumb, he plants a chaste kiss to her lips. “No, my silly Lysa. It’ll be easier with just Sansa and myself. We’ll be back before dinner, I assure you.”

Her heart sinks, but there is no protest left in her. Lysa glances at the stairwell as Sansa reappears, holding in a sneer that she so wants to wear, then back to her husband — to Petyr who can do no wrong. “Alright. But go now. I want you in your best suit and at the dinner table by six,” she pouts.

“Have I ever let you down, my darling?”

Only once, but she does not say that, choosing instead to kiss him until she is completely dizzy. See, you whore! You bitch! You harlot! See how much my husband loves me!

* * *

As soon as he is seated, Petyr pops a mint into his mouth. The tin says extra strength, but even through the overpowering bite of mint he can still taste his rancid wife where her presence is unwanted. He tosses back another for good measure. His tongue is on fire but he welcomes the searing pain on his taste buds. 

Next to him, Sansa adjusts her seat, fiddles with the safety belt before they trek the hour into Gulltown. These trips into the city are a solace when Lysa is in particularly fine form. Which is always. Thank the gods he was able to avoid Robin and his incessant whining; his wife’s desire to have him home for Valentine’s dinner greater than her hatred of Cat (or Cat’s progeny) for once.

“Ready?” asks Petyr as the engine roars to life.

The click from her seatbelt resonates in the cabin, and Sansa bounces to face him, a lovely grin decorating her lips. “Definitely!” She is just as excited to get out from that oppressive roof as he is. And who could blame her, with Robin dogging her heels and Lysa throwing daggers at her?

The SUV is a good ten minutes down the road before Sansa broaches conversation(having explored all available radio stations beforehand). “Thank you for taking me into town, Uncle Petyr. You really didn’t have to.”

“And let the dreams of the next great artist be crushed underfoot?” Petyr kids lightly with a wink and a smirk. “I would never be able to live with myself. And, Sansa, while its just you and me, please call me Petyr.”

“Petyr,” Sansa repeats. The consonants are sharp on her tongue and pleasing to his ears. As though the name belongs there. The informality, he hopes, will break this awkward tension between them. The last twenty-four hours with Lysa on constant guard has them both walking on eggshells.

This is the first time the two of them have been alone since his wedding day, and given that he wasn’t accosted by a herd of angry Stark men, he assumes that Sansa has told no one of his impropriety that day. A stupid error in judgment driven by drunkenness and self-loathing.

It’s too quiet without the radio, and he clears his throat.

“So tell me about this art project?” Petyr asks, preferring the softness of her voice to awkward silence or the droning growl of the engine.

“Oh, well,” Sansa begins enthusiastically, bringing one leg beneath her as she faces him, “It’s a study of the human form. We’ve been drawing mannequins in class. These things are so lifelike though, articulation points and everything,” she raves.

Petyr arches his brow in her direction. “How realistic are we talking?” And enjoys the blush that tips her ears.

“Well,” she bites her lip and tucks away a bit of wild hair, “ _very_ if I’m being honest,” adding with big hand gestures and bright eyes, “There was huge hubub about it when they brought them in a couple years ago. A lot of the more _conservative_ parents didn’t want their kids exposed to that sort of thing. (The naked form is a sin to them or something, I don’t know.) And they were on the verge of being banned, but Ms. Maggie (head of the art department, she’s amaaaazing) whipped out all the history textbooks, and presented a detailed slideshow of every piece of nude artwork that graced its pages during a superintendent meeting they held to discuss the issue.”

“And I’m guessing she made her point?” 

“Oh yeah!” And Sansa half-laughs, and Petyr’s gaze is lost in the way that Tully red sways with her mirth. “The old windbags huffed and puffed, but the mannequins are still there. Locked up when not in use, but still there,” she says proudly.

The assault of the rumble strips against the tires snap him back to reality, and he swiftly corrects their trajectory, thrusting Sansa’s knee into the console with grunt. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “This road is nothing but curves, I swear.”

“It’s okay,” says Sansa as she surveys the damage, and quickly jiving, “I think I’ll survive this terrible trauma.” 

Petyr smirks at the sarcasm, and ribs her with his own. “No need for me to kiss it and make it better, then?” And it only hits him how completely inappropriate that is until the words have let loose. He’s flirting with his niece. Fucking hell. He’s about to apologize, but stops, his throat going dry at the way she is biting her lip. Eyes on the road, Petyr. Eyes. On. The road. “The project,” he recovers. “You haven’t told me about that yet.”

“Yeah,” she hesitates with a slow blink before facing forward again, both feet firmly planted on the floor. “For the project, I’m supposed to choose two of the positions that we drew and find a way to have them interact on the page. It’s supposed to be some throwback to the Renaissance or something. I had my figures set up to re-enact a scene in a Greek bathhouse.”

“Hmm.”

And she tilts her head to look at him. “What?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Petyr demures before spitting it out. “I just thought… Well, if it were me and I wanted to make a statement, I would do something more evocative. A bathhouse is pretty, I’m sure, but what are you trying to say with it?”

“Say with it? It’s just an assignment, not a work of art, Petyr.” 

“Why not?” questions Petyr. “Think about what you’ve been doing in all these lessons. Certainly, this teacher of yours doesn’t really want you to just throw two figures on a page. I mean, look at how hard she fought for you to have the privilege to be able to draw those forms in the first place. What I bet she’s expecting — hoping for even — is to see how you apply those skills she’s been honing with you for all these months.”

“Maybe.” It’s not a full acceptance, but Sansa is listening, which Petyr appreciates far more than than she’ll ever know. She stops chewing on her own thoughts to finally ask, “What would you draw, if you were me?”

What emotion drives man to create more than any other thing? “A lovers embrace.”

“Oh.” Sansa picks at her nails. “I don’t know that I could do that. It’s a bit risque for high school, don’t you think?”

“Now, who’s conservative?” he teases her.

* * *

Snow drifts down from the sky as they enter Gulltown; great, white flakes swirling over the city, over the docks barely visible in the distance. Sansa now questions whether it was wise to come out with the threat of this storm looming. If it’s this bad at the lower elevation, what’s it going to be like as they head back up? Craning her neck, she looks beyond Petyr’s profile to check the mountain in the distance, as if through some miracle she might actually be able to see the road conditions from this far below.

Petyr interrupts her thoughts, “Don’t worry about the trip up. This old girl has seen worse conditions.” And gives a pat to the steering wheel to emphasize his point.

“I’ll have to take your word for it, but it’s not so much the snow as the mountain that worries me. It’s awfully steep, and that road is frighteningly narrow.”

“Well there used to be an old castle up there,” Petyr tells her. “That road was actually designed to ensnare invading armies. Bottleneck them so they could be picked off one by one like cows at slaughter.”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“No. I’m quite serious,” and he gestures to the steepest point. “That’s where the castle stood. On a clear day you can still make out its foundations. I can’t believe you don’t know any of this. Did you skip school the day they taught about the Andal invasion?”

“I must have, because I have never heard any of this before, and I’m not convinced you aren’t lying through your teeth,” she teases him.

“Normally, I’d say that’s a good instinct to have, but I’m a honestly a little hurt at the insinuation.” And he actually does look hurt. Damn.

“Oh, Petyr, I didn’t mean-”

But he breaks into wicked smirk before she finishes her sentence, and soon his whole body vibrates with uncontained laughter.

“Oh my god! I was right! You were lying!” she accuses with a bevy of angry pokes to his chest.

“Ow, ow ow!” And he’s howling when he catches her wrist; plants a kiss to it in apology rendering her somewhat speechless. “I was only partly lying,” he admits warmly. “The story behind the castle is real, and so is the road, but it had nothing to do with the Andal Invasion. That was much, much earlier. Lies are always better when sprinkled with truth.”

And her insides flutter with the way he looks at her in that moment.

* * *

They stop at the crafts store first. This one is much larger than the dinky store Sansa has access to in Winterfell, and that’s precisely why he chooses it. Petyr gazes on, enraptured as Sansa explores aisle after aisle of mediums — acrylics and oils, watercolors and pastels— as far as the eye can see in every hue of the spectrum, but curiously, it’s a set of charcoals that nab her attention, and Petyr slyly throws them in the basket he sports when she moves on. 

It’s like watching a kid in a candy store, the way she darts to and fro — examining the wide assortment of brushes, in awe at the options for custom made canvases, and when an entire wall filled bottom to top with sketchbooks in a variety of paper stocks, colors, and sizes stands like a monolith before her, the girl invariably sees god. The sheer enormity of her options overwhelms her, and Petyr quietly flags down an employee for help when she merely stands in slack-jawed wonder, incapable of further exploration. 

At the checkout register, Petyr sneaks the charcoals under her chosen sketchpad along with the cheap set of basic drawing pencils she picked up, and slides his credit card before Sansa can protest.

“Oh, no! I was going to pay for it,” Sansa pouts.

“No, sweetling, I insist. I can’t help but feel responsible for your predicament. I never should have left your pad anywhere other than your room.”

“Well, thank you,” she says as the bag is handed over. And when she nonchalantly peeks into the bag to ensure everything is there, she sees the other item he threw in. “Oh! And the charcoals, too! Petyr, you’re spoiling me,” she chides good-heartedly. “I have to repay you for these at least.” And the way she beams at him causes his heart to clinch.

“That’s very considerate, sweetling, but,” and he surprises himself by cupping her cheek, “I think this right here is payment enough for me.”

Those adorable auburn brows knit up in confusion. “Huh?”

“Your smile, my dear.” And amusement bursts in his chest at the way she reddens, at the way she shies away from him like an unbroken mare with her lip caught between her teeth. He could almost kiss her again.

* * *

Another hour passes as they errand hop. 

At Highgarden Winery, they greet him by name, and procure for him what she assumes to be his standing order — an entire case of Arbor Gold — which is carefully loaded into the hatch of the SUV. 

Next, they visit a Pentoshi jewelry store (with a name Sansa could not pronounce no matter how many times Petyr repeated it to her). Inside, the glass cases display fine gems set in gold and silver. There is a window behind the largest with a thick metal door and a keypad, and within it she can see a jewelry artisan hard at work.

“Did you have something extra special made for your wife?” Sansa asks curiously, but Petyr is surveying the wares on display.

“What?” he responds distractedly.

“You told Lysa that her gift was ready. I assumed we were here to pick it up,” she says snapping her fingers and swinging her arms behind him.

“Oh, that,” he says disdainfully, and pivots to address her. “No. I’m afraid that was just a little white lie. You’re aunt is… How should I put this?” he hums.

“A nagging, attention-seeking, pain in the ass?” supplies Sansa cheekily.

“I was going to make an attempt at delicacy, but your poignant description has outstripped me, I believe.” And her stomach flips at the warm chuckle he gives her. “Telling her that it is a specially ordered piece makes her feel special, and gives me a modicum of peace.”

Her head cocks to the side. “Peace? You say that like you don’t enjoy your wife’s company.” And Petyr flashes her an irritated look that says, _’Have you met my wife?’_. She presses into that bruise. “If that’s the case, then why marry her?”

“I forget how young you are,” he says tiredly. “People get married for a myriad of reasons, Sansa.” And a gaudy gold, jewel-studded trout brooch catches his attention.

“Are you saying you don’t love your wife?” Your wife. Your wife is my aunt. My aunt’s name is Lysa. Yet, for an inexplicable reason Sansa couldn’t bring herself to acknowledge the connection aloud. All she could think about was his wedding day, and that kiss in the orchard under the stars. The wine and the mint laced on his tongue as she yielded to him. Does he even remember? It lasted only seconds before she came to her senses, and he appeared as shocked as she when he was pushed away, but nary a word has been spoken about it since.

Petyr’s lips are thin and silent as he stares down at the garnish piece. Finally, he addresses the portly man hovering nearby, “Gerold, I think this is the one. Wrap it up.”

* * *

The streets are relatively clear and snow-free inside the city limits, but take a turn towards treacherous the closer they come to the mountain pass. Petyr drives sedately on, occasionally peeking at Sansa in his periphery. Despite being from the North, her posture is tense, one hand white-knuckling it on the center console, and the other hanging off the _oh shit_ bar at the ceiling. He wants to tease her, but bites his tongue. He has already been too frank with her on this excursion, and given the state of the weather, it’s probably ill-advised to attempt banter with her regardless. The snow is deepening and his concentration needs to be on the worsening road conditions. Turning in at the base of the mountain, Petyr is greeted with a barricade and yellow flashing lights. A police officer waves her hands from the roadside, and Petyr being the only vehicle around stops in place.

The frozen wind whips his cheeks when he rolls down the window. “What’s the problem?”

“Sorry, folks, but you’re gonna to have to turn around,” the woman yells over the bluster. “If it was just the snow, you might be okay in this vehicle, but there was a rock slide a few miles up. The road’s a real mess.”

“Any idea how long it’ll take to clear?”

“Nope, sorry. But with this weather? I wouldn’t count on travelling this way until tomorrow morning at the earliest.” Something akin to relief washes over him. For tonight, at least, he won’t have to suffer Lysa’s repugnant attempt at seduction.

“Oh,” comes Sansa’s surprised voice next to him. There is also _that_ to consider; the almost-woman next to him who has been charming him and degrading his carefully built walls all day. Lies come quite easily to him, but with her… 

“Thank you for your help, officer. Stay safe out here!” 

“Will do!” the officer calls back.

The glass hums back into place with a press of a button, and Petyr checks his rearview to turn around. “Well, it looks like we’ll need to find a hotel for the night. There’s a decent inn just down the way. I know it’s a holiday, but I bet they can squeeze us in.”

Holding her hands up to the heat registers, Sansa states the obvious. “Aunt Lysa is going to be pissed.” 

And he gives her shoulder a squeeze before hitting the gas. “You let me worry about your Aunt Lysa.”


	2. Chapter 2

There’s a blurb on the news about the rock slide; a solitary news reporter braving the frigid conditions just to fill five minutes of air time. They lucked out — Sansa is still undecided on whether it is good luck or bad luck. There was just one room left at the inn: a single queen bed, in a tiny suite with a tinier kitchenette. Her coat hangs in the closet and her shoes sit by the door. Petyr told her to get comfortable before stepping out to call her aunt, but she hasn’t the courage yet to take up space on the bed; so she watches the television upside down from the floor, her legs swung over the bed’s edge, munching on a bag of chips she filched from the mini-bar. 

When Petyr enters the room again, he looks tired. Lysa must have really chewed off his ear, because he’s carrying two bottles of wine from the case in the Range Rover. He collapses next to her legs, and just stares down at her like she’s a balm or a solace or something more that she cannot place. It warms her limbs, and her insides contort into a searing white coil centered low in her hips, but she meets it unflinching.

“How did she take it?” It’s a stupid question and obvious, but the air is crackling and any lightning rod will do to break the tension.

A laugh heaves from his chest, and it breaks him free from whatever trance held him, and the atmosphere is again benign. “Not well,” he says finally, “but she’ll live. In the meantime…” he holds up one of the bottles sitting next to him, “I could do with a drink.” 

“A drink?” She arches her brow at the two bottles he carries to the kitchen. “Looks more like a party from here,” she calls after him, and he smirks as the cork is popped from one bottle.

“I didn’t say anything about drinking alone,” he returns moments later, sauntering over to her with a plastic cup in each hand. “Here.” Petyr presses one of them in her direction. 

Her hand twitches, but she doesn’t reach for the proffered drink. “I’m not old enough to drink, Petyr,” Sansa teasingly admonishes.

“And who’s going to tell on you, sweetling?” That wins him a smile, and Sansa shrugs off the floor, her legs now splayed haphazardly beneath her.

The cups are clacked together in a mockery of a toast shared, and wetting her lips, Sansa lifts the plastic to them. She pauses as they makes contact to glance over the rim. This breaks every single rule her parents ever laid out for her, but with the expectant way Petyr grins at her, she cannot bring herself to care.

Her face contorts into a grimace as the liquid burns a path down her throat. “Wow,” she coughs, wiping a bit of sputter off her chin. “That’s strong.I thought it would be sweeter.”

A full throated laugh escapes him, and she is certain it’s the widest smile she’s ever seen on him. “It’s an acquired taste. The first glass is always the hardest,” he jokes. “By the end of this adventure of ours, you’ll be a wine connoisseur, I promise.”

The next sip that passes her lips is just that much sweeter for the promise.

* * *

A quarter after six, room service arrives with their meals; the pasta primavera for him, and the chicken parmigiana for her. The attendant doesn’t so much as flinch when he rolls the cart in. He is either a very good actor, or this isn’t an unusual occurrence: an older man sharing his room with a much younger woman. Petyr suspects the latter, but plans to tip generously regardless.

A red rose adorns the center of the cart, and he contemplates its removal before ultimately ceding that it’s presence is harmless. It is Valentine’s Day, after all, even if this dinner will be shared with his niece. 

_My niece, my niece, my niece._ My niece with hair like fire and blue eyes that burn and porcelain skin so soft that only keeping his hands in his pockets prevents him from pulling her flush at every opportunity. 

Petyr chants the relation in his head to remind himself not to do anything compromising. She’s already caught him staring (more than once) and there is a non-zero chance of him getting through this night without popping an awkward boner. 

_Why the hell did I bring wine into this situation?_

He tells himself that it was prompted by Lysa and by stress (one in the same really). Yet, after the concealed leaves on the cart are set up, their plates are uncovered, and the room service attendant is finally gone, all it takes is the luminous effigy of Sansa splayed like a goddess in repose against her pile of pillows to prove him for the dirty, lecherous liar he is.

_If I go to the deepest reaches of hell for this, it will be bloody worth it._

With a flourish he announces, “Dinner is served, sweetling.”

* * *

The food is gone now, save for a few bites of chicken that were a little too dry, and Petyr just emptied the last of the wine into his glass(the first bottle; bottle number two is still waiting to be cracked), but neither of them move from their hastily drawn seats at the makeshift table. The alcohol’s effects have Sansa melting into her seat, and his leg is pressing into hers beneath the tables tight quarters. An accident, she thinks. He probably believes it’s the cart, and reason tells her that she should move it to prevent an awkward situation later, but she lets it be. The slight chill from the storm outside is seeping in through the wide window, and that concentrated point of heat has her blood running hot. 

The man in question has been watching her all through dinner as though his pasta wasn’t enough to sate his appetite, but Sansa likes the look on him and is feeling bold. The elephant in the room no longer wants to traipse silently in the bush. “If I ask you a question will you answer honestly?”

In response, Petyr swirls the dregs of the wine bottle, before glancing at the bottom. “Signs point to yes.” 

The terrible joke has Sansa rolling her eyes. He’s trying to distract her. That’s his way. Nothing is straightforward or linear, he always pivots. And if she had one less glass of wine in her system she might let him as she has in the past, but not tonight. “Why did you kiss me out in that orchard two years ago?”

Petyr chokes and sputters as the question catches him off guard. “Did I?” But Sansa gives him her best ‘Don’t even’ look, and he relents. “Yes, I did. I know,” he sheepishly admits. “Yet, you didn’t tell anyone. Why?”

“You were kissing someone, but it wasn’t me. There was too much behind it,” she tells him, and the truth behind her first kiss nettles her gut. 

“An astute observation,” he sighs.

“I know, so answer the question,” she counters.

Chuckling sadly, he stares at the ceiling. “Honestly, Sansa, I don’t know exactly. I was very drunk and feeling sorry for myself. And you were just so…” he trailed off, his eyes stormier, greyer than she’d ever seen them. “I think you reminded me of something I wanted once.”

“You don’t love my aunt.” It is neither question, nor accusation.

His head lolls to the side so he can see her face. “No, I really don’t.”

“Then why marry her if you don’t love her?”

“Love is an unreliable basis for anything, much less something as legally binding as marriage. Time changes people, feelings fade,” he says morosely. “Some people marry because loneliness frightens them. Others, because it’s just the expected thing to do. But the more common reason — though few will admit as much — is because it benefits them to do so.”

“And marriage to my aunt benefits you?” 

He smirks, but it is wry and joyless. “I’m CEO of Arryn, Inc., am I not?” And toasts the air before draining his cup.

“So you don’t believe in love at all?” Her tone incredulous, unable to parse the skepticism of his words with the warmth she’s seen from him in just the last few hours. 

Emitting an undignified grunt, Petyr stands and walks to the kitchen. “I’m gonna need the other bottle if we’re to continue this discussion.”

“Don’t avoid the question,” she half-yells at him in irritation, and Petyr freezes, crumpling the freshly removed seal from the new bottle in his fist. It thuds softly against the counter and his shoulders slump. 

“Yes, I do,” he concedes. “And there’s the rub.”

* * *

Emotionally drained, completely, utterly. The wine was his downfall. It loosened his tongue to an embarrassing degree. Though, an argument could be made for the girl as well. Something about her frays his edges, and he totally unravels at her slightest tug. First, at the jewelry store, and now here. He’s a fool. A foolish boy still chasing after something he cannot have. Thankfully, her interrogation ceases without his intervention, so he razes her mountain of pillows, and collapses into the bed to rest his eyes. 

The low murmur of the television is the backdrop to his misery. Fifteen minutes or so into his dark ruminations, he nods off, but a highly irritating noise awakens him — scratching. Not nail to skin, or claws to a floorboard, but pencil to paper and it is close. With curiosity eating him, Petyr eases one lid open a fraction. Across from where he lies, Sansa is balled up in the armchair, her newest acquisition perching against her knees, and a gleam of determination inhabits those brilliant eyes. The muse must be with her for so deep is she in contemplation that he doubts she’s aware that the pink tip of her tongue is thoroughly lodged in the corner of her mouth. It’s a half-tempting idea to reach out and poke it back in with his finger just to bring some color into her cheeks. Maybe more than poke it. 

The sketching stops, and Sansa studies what’s been laid to the canvas, before then darting to him. “Oh! You’re awake.” And there’s that color that he wants to see, but she hastens to put away her charcoal.

“So it seems.” He props up on his elbow to spy into her lap, but the pad flops closed before a form can be seen on the page. “What were you drawing?” he prys.

Jumping out of the chair, Sansa hedges the question. “Nothing.” 

His eyes narrow to something predatory as he follows her. “May I see?”

She shrugs him off. “It’s just a doodle.” Yet, every forward step he takes is matched by her retreat, and the pad that was at first held defensively against her chest is now locked tight behind her. She is definitely hiding something.

Oh, that playful innocence! It’s intoxicating, and if she wants to do this dance, he’s game for it. A devilish brow arches inquisitively as he backs her into the wall. “So you weren’t drawing me?” 

“NO.” But the pulse hammering at the base of her neck tells another story. 

Toe-to-to they stand, the boundary of propriety they’ve been skirting all night growing thinner and less important. His hands fall to either side of her head, boxing her in. “You’re a terrible liar, Sansa.” _I could teach you to be better_. “Just show me.”

“I’m not lying,” she snipes, but there is a kittenish smirk tugging one side of her mouth, and Petyr is done negotiating.

He pounces! One arm tickling her side as the other grasps blindly behind her back. “Show me. What. You were. Drawing,” he demands, but Sansa refuses to surrender, giggling as she throws the pad across the room. The unexpected move distracts Petyr enough that she is able to duck and dodge, free herself from his trap, but the victory is short lived. A dangling blanket wraps itself around her ankle in her flight, and she crashes to the floor. Petyr darts past her to win the war and claim his prize. 

Doubled-over, Petyr pants, “Ha!” And Sansa glowers unconvincingly from the floor. 

“Go ahead, Petyr. Take a look,” she taunts.

“I do believe I will,” he says, the pad of his thumb rasping over the sketchbook’s thick edge until it catches the the top. “Let’s see if you caught my roguish good looks, shall we?” The front cover flicks around the spiral binder with a snap, and what greets him is not all all what he expects. “You drew the lamp,” he says dryly.

“I was practicing my basics,” she rebuts, as he extends a hand to help her up.

“The lamp, though?”

Flippantly, she shrugs, a smile hidden on her lips. “It was stationary and it has interesting lines.” Then pokes the beast, “Nor was it snoring.” 

Oh, no she did not. Petyr’s blood is up. The words leave his mouth slowly. “I do not snore.”

“Oh really?” Sansa smirks as she produces her phone, holds it up with her thumb positioned precariously over the play button. “Wanna bet?”

“You better delete that!” he warns.

And a new game is afoot.

* * *

A yawn overtakes Sansa, and she stretches out over the bed before receding into her warm little nook of pillows again. After their last game of chase, Petyr popped open the remaining bottle of wine; a nightcap, he called it, but that was over an hour ago, and midnight is fast approaching. Unfortunately, sleep is not. Petyr has taken up in the armchair, legs crossed as he nurses his wine, watching some black and white film that she is only half-following. Her mind is elsewhere as it attempts to puzzle out the project she has yet to start.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said in the car.” The words fly from her mouth without regard.

His eyes narrow in consideration as he is pulled from the movie. “We discussed quite a few subjects on our trip down. To which are you referring?”

“My art project,” she says sitting up. “I’ve decided to do it — your suggestion.”

“Ah.” Another sip passes his lips.

“There is just one _tiny_ problem,” she explains.

“And what’s that?”

“Well, art is supposed to evoke feeling like you said, right?”

Petyr nods, impassively agreeing.

“How do I fake that?”

“Fake that?” His face scrunches, and he leans forward in his chair. “You’ve never been held?” There’s that ravenous gleam again.

“No,” she blurts. It’s neither truth nor lie. She’s kissed her share of frogs, but the experience was always lackluster; teenage boys more concerned with how far they can push underneath her clothes than any consideration for her enjoyment. “Can you show me?”

The man is in turmoil, his eyes studying the liquid in his hand. His body betrays his interest, tongue making a slow crawl over his bottom lip. What she asks of him is dangerous, legally questionable, and morally wrong, wrong, wrong. “Sansa-”

And she’s so afraid he’ll say no that she cuts him off. “It’s for art, Petyr! And it’s not like you haven’t kissed me before.”

“And I shouldn’t have even done that,” he sighs before tipping back the rest of his wine. “Do you know how much trouble I could get in if you spoke one word of this aloud?”

“Oh, I won’t tell anyone,” she promises, crossing her heart, lips locked between her teeth.

The silence is deafening as he considers her request. “Fine, but we do it my way. Up,” he orders, miming the command. 

Sansa holds in a squeal as she peels back the light blanket over her legs to stand. “Okay, great one, teach me your ways,” she says playfully.

“Great one?” He rubs at his jaw, one indulgent brow lifted. “Oh, I like that. Be careful you don’t bite off more than you can chew.” His warning burrows low while his hands adjust her position. One arm is lifted to his shoulder, the other to his waist, his own mirroring their positions as he closes the distance between them. Donning the mantle of instructor, his voice is deeper, soft and husky. “There is an art to a proper embrace. Close your eyes for me, Sansa.”

Her lids snap shut and she is far more nervous to be in his arms than someone who instigated this should be. 

Asking against her cheek, “Now, what do you feel?”

She cracks a self-flagellatory joke to release some tension. “A little silly to be honest,” and there is a low rumble against her chest when he chuckles. It warms her through.

“No, no, no,” he lightly admonishes. “What do you _physically_ feel? Use your senses. Our bodies are within inches of each other. Are you warm?”

A little out of breath, Sansa nods. “Yes. I mean, I still feel a little chill, but-” 

Petyr tightens his hold until he is a solid wall against her. “How about now?”

 _On fucking fire_. She swallows, her throat suddenly very dry. “Warmer.”

“What about my hands? Do you feel them?” And those hands begin to move. His fingertips teasing beneath her shirt to find the notches of her spin, threading around her neck to find purchase in her hair.

“Yes,” Sansa shivers, her whole body sagging against him.

“What else?” Petyr rasps. “What other naughty little sensations are coursing beneath that flawless skin of yours? Tell me.”

“Your breath,” she stutters. “It’s hot. And moist, and-” She chokes back a whimper as he drags the coarse grain of his stubble along her jaw. The cloth of his shirt bunches in her fists as she clings on to him for sanity, as she awaits the brush of lips that never comes. But he’s there, hovering, waiting, his nose barely grazing her own. 

“Is that all?” The velvet soft words pass over her lips, and she breathes them in; tastes the mint and the wine that have so wholly become a part of him in her mind.

“I-” But words are not sufficient. I’m hot, but I’m not sick. Or maybe I am sick because I want you to kiss me; _more_ than kiss me, but my conscience is screaming to stop this now before it goes too far. The continuing inner conflict shreds layer after layer of the person she thought she was away, leaving a feral husk — a hungry beast that just _wants_.

“Open your eyes, Sansa.”

The command brings her out of her head and back to the surface. She still tastes as vibrant blue reveal themselves. A smouldering darkness, a low burning ember just begging to catch flame reflects back. In that state between fearful wanting and untempered lust, Petyr finds her; a declaration coming out moments before his lips lay claim. 

“I knew you were going to be trouble.”


	3. Chapter 3

The slam of the car door jolts Lysa awake. She had perhaps gone a little too heavy on the benzos, but who could blame her? Petyr wasn’t home. Her Valentine’s Day was ruined, and it is all her floozy sister’s fault for bringing that tart of hers into Lysa’s home for the weekend.

Nevertheless, Lysa throws on her housecoat — somewhat dazed from rising too quickly — and stumbles to the front door. Too late she realizes that no one has taken the plow to the front drive (Petyr always handles these things), and instead hears the open and shut of the rear entrance. Of course he would park at the leeward side where the snow has fallen thinnest, she chides herself. Her clever Petyr thinks of everything.

Shambling towards the back terrace, she sees them in quiet conversation, unaware of her presence. He’s touching that _girl_ again, standing too close with one hand on her back, and that knots her guts tighter than twine, but she pastes on her smile to greet her lover.

“You’re home!” she exclaims, not so subtly pushing Sansa away to jump into his arms. He stiffens as she buries her face in his shoulder, and he smells different. Less clean, more musky. It’s from staying in that run down old inn. Poor thing hasn’t had a proper shower in almost two days, of course he smells different. “I’m so glad you made it home safe,” Lysa babbles into his neck before pushing away to view the matching joy she is sure is on his face, but his expression is impassive, and she gulps down her disappointment. “Is everything okay? How was the drive up?”

The stiff-lipped smile he gifts her does nothing to abate her growing apprehension. “The drive was fine. Everything is fine. I’m just tired. You know I don’t sleep well without you nearby.” His fingers gently massage the base of her spine, and Lysa relaxes into him. Of course, it’s just that — the stress of being stuck in a storm, and having to deal with Cat’s chit of a daughter just took a lot out of him. 

“Oh, then you should rest! My poor Petyr! Come, come. Lysa will make it all better,” she coaxes in her best seductive voice. She pulls him deeper into the house towards the direction of their bedroom, ignoring the way his steps falter behind her; saying not even a word in passing to her niece. Let her feel the impact of my snub! The troublemaker. The home wrecker.

I’ll remind Petyr just how much his wife loves him. He’ll never look twice at that bitch when I’m done with him.

* * *

Droplets are still falling onto his shoulders when he stops in front of Sansa’s door; the white undershirt he wears now transparent in places. He scrubbed himself raw of Lysa’s _affections_ as soon as she was appeased. Her jealousy driving her desire more than any love for him. It is a habit of hers he’s grown used to over the years, but it is not one that was welcome. Not today. Not after last night. His possessive wife refused his normal platitudes — those excuses designed to dampen her lust. It was clear that she meant to conduct some vulgar tableau of dominance, some primal display to taunt her niece and put her in her place. It is pathetic and passive-aggressive. _She_ is pathetic. Their rutting was animalistic. A base thing driven by hate on his side, desperation on hers. Every thrust of his hips meant to cause pain. And Lysa... poor, sad, foolish Lysa took it likes she takes _everything_ from him. Petyr tried his best to silence her during this farce — shoving a hand over her mouth, her face into a pillow — whatever he could to keep his wife’s disgusting howls from reaching Sansa’s ears. He prays it worked as his knuckles rap at her door.

There is a pregnant pause, and for a moment Petyr fears she won’t speak with him. That she regrets the events of last night. That she hates him for being led away so easily by his wife. His insufferable wife with her insufferable son in her insufferable house that suffocates, suffocates, suffocates every second, every minute, every hour and day.

“Come in,” cries a faint dulcet voice.

It takes a minute for his eyes to adjust to the brightness in her room. The curtains are fully open, the sunlight reflecting off the powder white snow that coats everything until it blinds. Yet, his hearts jumps at the sight of copper tresses flowing like a river down Sansa’s back. She is packing; her overabundance of clothing and electronics and text books that she’s used during her short stay littered in orderly piles throughout the room. It shocks him, but it shouldn’t. Cat will arrive for her later tonight. She doesn’t stop her progress, slender digits seeking article after article, packing away the evidence of her.

Coughing slightly, he clears his throat and lifts the object that he’d fetched from the Range Rover, waving it just within her line of sight. “I brought your sketchbook.”

He doesn’t miss the hiccup in her movements, the slight tensing in her jaw, her neck, her shoulders. Sansa lets out a tremulous breath, her hands clutching the clothing within her fingers like a grounding lifeline. She does not look at him. She does not even move her head in acknowledgment.

“I just…” he tosses it dejectedly into the middle of her open suitcase, “I didn’t want your aunt to get her hands on this one, too.” And he flees, because what else could he do under the weight of her dejection.

The knob is cold in his hand when he hears the faintest whisper. “I don’t regret it.”

The metal cuts into his palm with a flex, an anchor holding him in place. He dares to utter only one word over his shoulder. “What?”

“I don’t regret it,” she says with more clarity, more conviction. “I should — _we_ should — but I don’t. ” A soft intake, a sobbing laugh escapes alongside her plea, “This is wrong. Everything about this is completely fucked up and off the rails, and I should feel terrible. I should hate myself for the things we did last night. A good person doesn’t betray their family and not feel remorse, but I don’t,” she barks a shaky breath. “So I guess I’m not a good person. Fine. Whatever.

“Here’s the thing though. I don’t want this to end. Your apology this morning, I don’t accept it. I don’t forgive you, because there is nothing to forgive. I want this. Every sordid kiss in every dark corner at every family gathering kind-of-want this. You said it was a mistake, but I don’t believe you. I don’t even think you believe you, because I can feel it even now as we stand five feet away from each other. The way every cell of our primordial biology is screaming at us not to let go; to sink our claws into one another so deep that nothing can separate us. Am I wrong? Have I misinterpreted everything? Am I just as batshit as Lysa?” A hiccup. “Please tell me I’m not wrong, Petyr.”

Sucking in a shaky breath, Petyr closes his eyes, tries to recover from the cut her glorious lips have dealt. Every word is true. It’s been true from the first kiss on his wedding day, and it’s even more true after the night they stole together. An inexplicable string around his heart tugs inside his chest at her every heartfelt tear. An all-encompassing ache that bleeds for her now, and only for her. She’s ruined him. She’s saved him. But whatever this is, it’s too risky. A goodbye was his intent when he knocked at her door, and a goodbye is what he will give her. She’s young and impetuous, and her heart will mend.

Yet, the words, the platitudes, the excuses and reasons all die in his throat when he is face to face with her again.

* * *

There is a yank at Lysa’s sleeve, but she tries to shake it off. Then, another before the variant pitch of Robin’s changing voice beckons her to wakefulness, “Mommy, wake up! I’m hungry!”

“Hmmm.” Her eyes open a smidge. The room is dark, but a border of sunshine bursts from beneath the drapery, and she struggles to recall the time. Robin’s precious face looms in front of her, just out of focus. She blinks to erase the fog, but it doesn’t quite resolve. “What is it you need, my darling boy?” she asks him, groaning as she rolls to sit up.

“I said I’m hungry!” The boy reiterates with a petulant stomp.

“Okay, okay,” Lysa coos to him. “Why don’t you go to your play room while Mommy makes you a sandwich?”

“I don’t want a sandwich! I want Nutella on toast. With bananas. And honey!” he pouts, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Of course, my angel. Anything you want. Now go on,” she shoos, “Mommy needs to make herself decent.”

The child scurries out of the room with her assurances that food is on it’s way, and Lysa becomes keenly aware that she is alone in the bed. Worry niggles at the back of her mind. Where is my Petyr? Robin could have easily gone to him for this request if he is up and about. 

Throwing on the housecoat that had been hastily discarded in Petyr’s delirious hunger for her, she pops a pair of klonopin from her pocket. It wouldn’t do to be distressed by Petyr’s absence in front of her son. Besides, Petyr is likely just outside plowing the drive. He’s so thoughtful like that. And anything that will get Sansa Stark out of her house as quickly and painlessly as possible is a god-send in her book.

She takes the service stairwell to the kitchen. Lysa hates going this way. It’s musty and dark, but her hair is a mess, and she really ought to have taken a shower before stepping foot out of her room. She would positively die if Sansa (or gods forbid, Cat) were to see her at less than her best, but her sweet Robin waits for no one. It’s better to grab his food first, and then she will luxuriate in a nice hot bath. Maybe Petyr will join her, too, after all that time spent in the cold. Oh, she is more than willing to help warm him up, even if the place between her legs is still tender from his earlier ardor. She absolutely blushes when she recalls the visceral need he had for her. The way he took her from behind like a rabid animal. Oh, how could she ever doubt his love for her after _that_?

Unheeding of her surroundings, Lysa’s giggling like a school girl until she trips over the last few steps. Bloody hell! She catches the handrail, but not before her knee slams into the ground. She doubles over, groaning in frustration and pain. This is happening more and more lately. Like her feet don’t want to cooperate. The maid had to help her off the bathroom floor just a few days ago. During her last appointment with Dr. Coleman, he said it was a result of abusing her anxiety meds, but what did that windbag know? He has no idea of the stress she’s under. But her loving Petyr understands and located a reliable source for her pills after that joke of doctor refused to write her a new script. She is so thankful to him for that.

Ignoring her injury, she walks through the pain shooting up her hip into the kitchen to prepare Robin’s snack. The wind beyond the window blows the powdery snow in thin wisps. Lysa admires it as she slices the banana in long strips to drape over the chocolaty spread, but her eyes narrow in consternation. The drive isn’t cleared. The doors leading to the garage sit serenely undisturbed in the distance. An infinite dread weighs against her, and her temple pulses erratically. She is afraid. 

_Where is he?_

“Where is my snack?!” Robin wails upon his entrance. Damn it! She told him to wait for her. Re-group, Lysa, he can’t see you like this. And she plasters on her motherly delight. 

Shoving the dish into his chest, she sings, “Here it is, my darling.” The sickening sweet tone of her voice sounds false to even her. “Now off you go. Mummy has things she needs to do!”

“There’s no honey!” he pouts, dragging his feet against his mother’s forward progress.

“We’re out,” Lysa explains curtly. “And you don’t need it anyway. You’re turning into a little tubs.”

“I am not!” Robin cries with his lips in a trembling moue. He wrenches himself out of her grasp and runs off, the plate of toast and nutella and bananas squashed against his chest. But there is no time for Lysa to make amends. No time! No time!

_Where is Petyr?_

Crawling up the steps, her limbs are heavy and her vision is a blur, but she is is panicking. She has to find him. His office. He must be in his office, but when she collapses against the doorjamb it is empty. The only light a beam of bright white that peeks from parted curtains. It slashes across his desk catching on a bit of silver. Stumbling forward, she leans down for a better look. A letter opener. He’s not here. If Petyr is not plowing the drive and he is not overseeing work, there is only one other place, only one other person he could be with. 

A silent fury replaces her panic. A raging inferno. 

Unsteady but determined feet carry her to Sansa’s room, the twinge of her knee fueling tempestuous anger, boiling rage. The pounding in her head drowning out all rational thought, but beneath it all she hears them. The creaking of the mattress, the soft moans. Tears do not line her cheeks. She expected this after all. From the first moment that whore set foot in her house, she knew. She knew the slut would try to steal her Petyr, steal him away just like her jezebel mother did.

The thin silver is warm and comforting in her hand as she unlatches the door, but even knowing what she would find she is shell-shocked. Her limbs frozen. Arms and legs and oh-so-hated copper entwine around Petyr — her Petyr! — like some succubus from the deepest reaches of hell. And he! Oh, he is trapped as trapped can be. This isn’t her Petyr. He is bewitched! He must be! Her Petyr never held her so close. Never made slow love to her like this. Never let his lips meet hers as though he is starved, as though swallowing down her sounds could feed him for days. No. _Nononononononononono_. You _can’t_ have him. 

The bile rises in her throat bringing with it just one word.

* * *

Bruises on her lips, in the shape of fingerprints on her thighs, teeth marks along her breasts and neck — Petyr leaves his marks everywhere, heedless to the efforts Sansa will have to go to conceal them. He's laying his claim, and she could stop him, but she _wants_ to be claimed. Wants to see his artwork written across her skin for the days and weeks to come. Watch the deep blues and purples fade to yellow and brown and remember just how each one was created, because it would be months before they'd see each other again. Those bruises, those marks, those claims — they are promises. Promises that this isn't going to end once she leaves, that he will find a way for them to be together.

Every roll of his hips seals their pact, feeds that virulent ache that threatens to consume her. It's so close — an illusive zenith on the horizon — but Petyr's movements are deliberate and slow, filling her to completion and drawing out her pleasurable moans like the notes of an aria. And his sinful tongue feasts on them, swallows them down only to demand more. Insatiable. Worshiping her with his body, his gaze is reverent and hungry; purely wicked as he accedes to her every demand, every sigh for _more_ and _faster_ and _please please please_... All the while, he awards her new endearments: _my good girl_ , _my sweet girl_ , _my perfect Sansa_ , _my love_. Her heart soars until the veil is ripped off their temporary heaven.

“WHORE!!!” 

The hateful growl echoes off the walls, extends a ripple of horror down her spine, and they both freeze. Petyr is still hard inside her, but his eyes are wide as saucers and his nails dig into her as though he is holding on for dear life. 

Oh gods, what have we done? How stupid are we to let it go this far under Lysa’s roof? 

Off of her, out of her, Sansa pushes him away. The slickness between her legs dribbles, but there’s not time to deal with it as she scrambles to cover herself. Her pants were lost in the fervid melee to strip one another, but her pajama shorts lie on the chair. They will have to do. Her heart thunders against its confines as she yanks them on along with the matching tank. The threats Lysa spews go unheard for the disorganized clamor resounding in Sansa's own head, but the sharp object glinting in her aunt's hand is quite visible as she catapults herself across the bed. The edge stops short of its target as Petyr catches the madwoman about the waist, but still grazes the mark. The sharp prick to Sansa’s side steals her breath with a wince; a nick blooms across her ribs.

Immeasurable time passes. Seconds. Minutes. In a trance, her fingertip presses into the wound. Blood seeps through the frayed cotton, coats the tip, and dumbfounded, Sansa stares. 

Wrestling the deranged woman, Petyr tries to remove the letter opener from her possession, but she squirms free before that eventuality comes to pass.“Sansa!” shouts Petyr, breaking her shock. “Sansa, run!”

On winged feet, Sansa runs with Lysa hot in pursuit. Never has she been so thankful for her long legs as she is right now. Stretching them into a full gallop, she has just enough length to keep ahead of her bullish aunt's charge.

“Come back here you little slut!” comes Lysa’s shrill epithet.

Oh shit! Oh fuck!

The drumbeat in Sansa's chest is stealing oxygen faster than she can compensate, her lungs are burning, legs are burning, temple is pounding and she's growing light headed. The thick door to a room down the hall beckons, only for her to recall there are no locks in this godsforsaken house. Thank you so much to Robin and his tantrums! So she heads for the stairs, her feet rumbling down them, clacking like dominoes. Behind her, Lysa is gaining ground, wailing like a banshee. How the hell is she catching up?!

The car is her only salvation now, but the keys are on the hook in the kitchen, two feet of packed snow is on the ground, and she’s half-naked and freshly fucked. Air swooshes along her back, and the whistle of a blade as it slices empty space meets her ears. Any hesitation Sansa has about heading into the cold dissipates. The house isn’t safe so long as her aunt is in it. She’ll take her chances with old man winter. 

Pivoting hard to the left, Sansa breaks for the kitchen, and Lysa fumbles, slips on the hardwood floors in her slippered feet. In the background of this chaos, Sansa hears Petyr screaming from the upper balcony for his wife to _stop this lunacy_ , but the murderous woman’s lumbering frame has already recovered. No sooner does Sansa locate the keys, then Lysa storms the room — a locomotive off the rails. Her aunt's eyes are murderous as she blocks the door to the back terrace, but thinking quickly, Sansa feints around her and out the exit. 

The crisp bite of the frigid planks sear the soles of her feet as she tears over them towards the cliff-side pass. The path is icy, and Sansa barely feels the cutting wind on her face as adrenaline heats her blood, but her feet are unsure in their steps. Ankles give way, legs folding beneath her and she slides along the reformed ice; the coarse sand spread on the path earlier abrading her palms and knees as she scrambles for a hold on something, anything, as the descent fast approaches. The keys, lost in the crash, fly off the ledge, taking any hope of escape with them, as she, herself, finds a mooring only feet from the edge.

Out of breath, she pants in place until pain lances through her neck. With her bed tousled locks caged between Lysa's thick fingers, Sansa knows she is going to die. “Did you really think I would let you steal him from me?! You dumb, selfish little cunt! You whore! Petyr is mine! He will always be mine!” she growls in a rage.

The blade is glacial against her throat. Oh gods, is this really how I die? Terrified tears sluice from her eyes as she attempts to free herself from Lysa’s unyielding grip. "Please, please! I'm sorry!" Sansa begs.

"You don't know the meaning of the word," Lysa snarls. "You're just like her. Taking and taking and taking..."

“Lysa!” The deep, husking baritone ricochets off the white powdered trees, jostling the snows from their bowers. “Let her go.”

“No!” she screeches. “No! You want _her_! I love you! I did everything for you! I killed my husband for you!!! And you choose this, _this slut_!”

“She’ll be gone soon, Lysa.” The grip on her scalp eases, and there is a grating of grit and ice only feet away. “She’ll be gone, and we can pretend this never happened.”

Sansa sucks in a breath of relief. Petyr won’t let this happen. He will save her. But then her head is jerked back again and agony sears through her skull. 

“No!” Lysa sobs. “No, I can’t pretend this never happened. She touched you, Petyr! She touched you! I’m your wife! Only I can touch you, don’t you see!!!”

Yet, no blade touches her skin. Twisting just so, Sansa sees Petyr clutching Lysa’s wrist in a vice. A shrewd calculation lights his eyes as they bore into Lysa, but an unexpected softening to the rest of him.

“Not this way, my sweet,” he soothes. “If the girl must die, then cutting her throat will only cause suspicion. Let me handle this,” he croons. “It will be my apology to you.” 

“You would kill her? For me?” Lysa asks with delusional hope.

“My darling wife, my sweet silly wife… You know there is only one woman for me,” he reassures and her unstable aunt’s grip finally, gratefully releases. Sansa scurries back from the edge, holding back her sobs lest Lysa doubt his sentiments and try again.

“Oh, do you mean it, Petyr? Do really mean it?” she simpers from between his arms. And the wind howls, Lysa’s housecoat snapping around her calves. The scene could almost be the cover of a romance novel — the look of devotion in her frantic aunt’s eyes as she stares into the face of the man she loves — except that Petyr’s jaw is hard, his grip harder at the top of her arms to the point Sansa is sure Lysa must feel pain.

“Of course, I mean it,” he says very deliberately, coldly. “It’s just not you.”

A blink, and the space where her aunt stood is empty, and not even the wind weeps for her.

* * *

Oh, this is new. Petyr’s face drifts from view, and all that’s in front of her is the clear cerulean sky.

Oh, look at me Petyr! I’m flying! 

Basking in the sun’s warmth, she closes her eyes to the harsh reality, her fingers and toes growing numb in the frigid wind.

Wasn’t she just wishing for a day like this? 

She smiles into the heavens, and the slam of the earth at her back never lessens her momentary joy.


	4. Chapter 4

The setting sun’s rays wash the snowy landscape in pinks and purples, cutting long shadows with the evergreens along the road. The intermittent darkness serves as Cat’s only reprieve from its blinding light. Her eyes squint and water under its assault, but she’s almost there. Just another mile or so and she’ll be able to rest them before making the return trip. She just hopes that Sansa is already packed. She really doesn’t want to play another round whose life is better with Lysa again. Her sister is so damn competitive about _everything_.

Curving through the last bend to her sister’s home, the lane is entirely blocked by a lone police cruiser, with red and blue lights flashing their warning. One officer leans against the hood with a cup of coffee in hand while another huddles in the front seat tapping away on his phone.

 _What in the world?_ First the road crews clearing debris twenty miles back and now this? The storm must have been worse than she’d heard.

The window rolls down an inch, and she calls out to him from the crack, “Is the road not safe up ahead?”

“Road’s fine,” he responds gruffly. Indicating with his head to the house perched on the cliff behind him, he adds, “But there's an active scene ahead. You’ll need to turn around.”

_An active scene?!_

“No, I can’t-” she stutters. “That’s my sister’s home. I’m supposed to be picking up my daughter.”

The officer cocks his head, shoes crunching the slush along the road as he approaches. “Is your sister Lysa Baelish?”

“Yes.” Her brow creases. She’s almost afraid to ask what trouble Lysa has gotten into now, and prays that Sansa hasn’t been pulled into it as she asks, “Is everything okay?” 

The boorish officer ignores the question to ask one of his own. “Got an ID?”

“Yes, of course,” she huffs in annoyance. Unzipping her purse to extract it from her wallet, she offers it to the man.

Dragging a notepad from his coat pocket, he gives her license a quick once over, comparing it with a list on the pages before handing it back. “Catelyn… Stark...” he hums, making a quick log of her presence. 

“Can you please explain to me what all this is about?” she asks impatiently. 

“No, ma’am. Afraid that’s above my paygrade, but the detective on site will fill you in. I imagine he’ll have a few questions for you as well. If you’ll just step out of the vehicle, I’ll escort you up.”

Cat’s sharp tongue is tempted to refuse, but her daughter is only minutes away, and the drive to Riverrun is two hours yet. She fervently wishes that Ned had come with her. Lysa’s commotions are so much easier to deal with when he’s there to support her, but the bad blood between he and Petyr runs deep after their partnership split ways. It would be nice if, just for once, visiting Lysa’s home wasn’t an ordeal.

Killing the engine, Cat wraps her heavy scarf over her head and around her neck, tossing on her gloves and adjusting her sunglasses. With any luck, this will be the last trip she’ll have to make up this godsforsaken mountain for a long time to come.

* * *

Despite the fact that the _accident_ occurred outside, most of the police called to the scene flocked inside the Arryn-Baelish home. An effect of the rapidly dropping temperatures as night fell. Partially, at least. There is one detective nosing about where he shouldn’t on grounds he can’t prove. Detective Royce was close friend’s with Lysa’s previous husband, and the man’s death never sat right with him. Unfortunately, any evidence that could prove Jon Arryn’s demise to be anything other than natural was long gone, as was anything related to Lysa’s death. Not that there was much even before Petyr and Sansa scoured the scene. 

The sheets of Sansa’s bed were replaced. The linens revealing evidence of their activities earlier in the day burned along with the blood soaked pajamas she wore. The letter opener that Lysa tried to kill her with was scrubbed clean and placed back in it’s proper spot on his desk. And while Sansa carried bruises and abrasions — both from his overzealous attentions as well as her flight — they were quickly treated, and concealed beneath jeans and a heavy knit, turtleneck sweater pilfered from Lysa’s closet. All of this, they managed to do in under half an hour before finding Robin in his usual haunt (cursing into a mic as he played some braindead shoot-em-up game) and calling emergency services. Thankfully, the distance from the station in combination with the weather meant no one would look too closely at the time of death. And through all this chaos, Petyr taught Sansa his most important lesson: the mastery of contrition (or the appearance thereof).

It is a fine art, though few will view it that way. If you go too deep into the wellspring of sadness, people will suspect you are faking. Appear too stoic, and they’ll think you don’t care. A good rule of thumb is to play up shock and disbelief. Remain composed but scatterbrained. Allow a tear or two to fall, but a deluge implies guilt. Petyr is a man well versed, and Sansa is an apt pupil.

* * *

Like an innocent fawn during hunting season, Sansa enters Petyr’s office, her hands tucked tightly under her arms as she makes sorrowful doe eyes at the detective. His presence is intimidating; he stands full head taller than she, with a barrel chest and arms that strain the sleeves of his navy blazer.

“Miss Stark,” he greets her with an extended hand, but she shies away from him to lodge herself in a ball on the leather chair in the corner, and pointedly avoiding the letter opener that sits brazenly on Petyr’s desk. Hard to believe it’s blade sliced into her flesh not two hours ago. Unperturbed by her reticence, he continues, “Miss Stark, my name is Detective Yohn Royce. I was told that you witnessed your aunt’s fall.”

Averting her eyes, she confirms, “Yes.”

Taking the seat across from her, he sets a pen to the notepad in his hand. “Can you please describe to me with as much detail as possible what happened?”

“There’s not much to tell,” her voice wavers, and she uses the sleeve gripped tight in her fingers to dab at the moisture forming in her eyes. “I was packing, and I turned around to grab my laptop from the desk at the window, and I saw her heading towards the cliff. She slipped, and-” she takes a deep breath, “and then she was just gone,” she softly sobs into her knit covered hand.

“Was she running or being chased by anyone?” he questions.

Scrunching up her face, “What? No. She was just walking like normal. Well, maybe a bit off balance, which if I’m being honest is her normal.”

The pen stops its scratching. “That’s an odd statement.”

“Is it?” Sansa bites her lip. “I guess it is. It’s just… I hesitate to say. She was my aunt.”

“Lying to the police is perjury. If you know something, you have to tell me or I can arrest you,” he says in a very convincing authoritative voice. 

Sansa almost laughs and is tempted to call him on his own lie. She’s seventeen not an idiot. But instead she nods politely. “It’s just, since I’ve been here, I’ve seen things. Found things.” She has his full attention. Royce leans forward in his seat like the next words out of her mouth mean his next promotion. “Pills,” she continues. “I’ve found them stashed all over the house. In the oatmeal, behind the sofa cushions downstairs, even found a bottle in a ziploc baggie inside the toilet when it wouldn’t flush one night.”

“Pills?” He asks with a downturn of his mouth.

“Yeah. I walked in on her taking them a few times. At first, I dismissed it. Mom, always joked that Lysa’s purse was a medicine cabinet, but if that’s the case then why is — was,” she corrects herself with a shake, “she hiding them?”

“A fair point,” he concedes. “Miss Stark, can you tell me what these pills looked like?”

“Well, I never opened the bottles, but they might have been blue, or green maybe? And they had a little cutout in the center.”

Producing a brown bottle from his pocket, he states, “These were found on your aunt’s body. Are they the same as what you’ve found around the house?”

Sansa eases forward in her seat, but doesn’t reach for the object in his hand. “Yeah. That’s them. What are they?”

“Klonopin,” he frowns. “If she was abusing, then chances are good they contributed to her death.” Abandoning his seat, the detective paces the length of the room, his eyes studying every nook and cranny. “What about your uncle?”

“What about him?” she responds with a shrug.

Slamming the bottle on the desk, he demands, “Have you ever seen your uncle with any pills like this?” 

“Uncle Petyr?” she says incredulously. “No. Never. I know he likes his wine, but I’ve never seen him pop so much as an aspirin.”

The answer doesn’t please the detective. Her version of events aren’t aligning with his agenda. He fingers the letter opener, gives it a spin, and Sansa’s throat goes dry. She holds back a swallow as he meets her eyes, but only just. “Well, I think that’s all my questions then. You’re free to go, Miss Stark.”

Removing herself from the chair, Sansa heads towards the exit. 

“Actually, I do have one more question, Miss Stark.” And her hand freezes on the curved handle to the hallway. “What was your relationship like with the deceased?”

Very deliberately, Sansa turns, locks eyes with the inquisitive brown irises of Royce. Sadness filling her voice, “Truthfully, detective, I didn’t know her well, but she was my aunt.” And left the explanation at that, leaving him to form his own opinion. “Is that all?” she asks with a downturn of slightly puffy eyes.

His face as sour as a bulldog, he acquiesces, “Yes, that’s all. Thank you for your help, Miss Stark.”

* * *

Ah, klonopin. It’s a hell of sedative, but you take the good with the bad. It’s great for seizures, panic disorders, and anxiety (of which Lysa had two), but when overused it has a host of nasty consequences. Loss of coordination, impaired memory, paranoia, dizziness, nausea to name a few. Petyr knows exactly what the officers are searching for as they toss the kitchen and the living room. He told Sansa where Lysa’s stashes were hidden after all. From there, it shouldn’t take much to connect two and two together. Especially, once they test Lysa’s blood. It was amazing she could stay awake during the day with the amount she regularly ingested. She ate the damn things like candy.

A croak from behind barely catches his attention. “Petyr?” Oh, that voice. He knows it so well — Cat. Nearing fifty, she still cuts a stunning figure, and enters the room like she was fresh off of the set of some high budget movie, a starlet from the big screen. A woman of natural grace and style that Lysa was never able to duplicate. Where Catelyn is quiet and understated, Lysa was brash and gaudy. Never did his poor deluded wife comprehend that flashing her wealth was not equal to taste. Is it any wonder that it was Cat that captured his heart when they were but children?

In five swift strides, she crosses the room to him, and he sinks willingly into her warm embrace. Pale lines are visible on her face where tears had torn a path hot and heavy through her makeup, but like a true Tully, they are dry now.

“Oh, god, Cat.” He hugs her tightly, a man grateful to see a kind face. “I’m so sorry. I meant to call. I-” Well-practiced wetness pools in the corner of his eyes, and a lone droplet travels the length of his nose to splatter against her shoulder.

“Oh, Petyr, no!” She chides him gently. “Don’t worry about that now. I know things must have been crazy around here the last few hours.” 

“So you know what happened, then? They told you?” He sniffs, swiping non-existent moisture away from his nose. 

“Not formally, but I was able to piece the gist of it together from the conversations I heard on the way through the house.” Rubbing comforting circles into his upper back, a curious Cat says, “I was hoping you could fill in the gaps.”

Petyr blinks slowly as he collapses in a nearby seat, and Cat falls in place beside him. “She fell. That’s all I know. By the time Sansa told me what happened, it was too late,” he chokes out. 

“Sansa?” she asks with concern.

“Shit. I forgot you don’t know that either.” Smoothing over his disheveled hair, and he pauses just long enough to appear contrite. “Cat, Sansa witnessed the accident.” 

Worry deepens the creases at her mouth to a frown. “No,” she gasps, a hand flying to her throat.

Covering Cat’s trembling hand with his own, “I’m not sure of the details, but It was Sansa’s yelling that woke me up.”

Frantically, she asks, “Is she okay?! Oh gods. I mean, to see something like that...” 

“She’s lying down. The detective had a lot of questions for her, and I think it just wore her out. She’s okay, Cat. Just a little shaken, that’s all.”

“Mrs. Stark?” Det. Royce interrupts. Cat blinks, a bit disoriented from the news, but nods in the affirmative. “I’m Detective Royce. Do you mind answering a few questions for me?”

“I’m not sure how I can help,” Cat answers, “but, of course.”

“If you could come with me.” The man extends his hand in the direction of the office, and Petyr watches as Cat is ushered away. The oversized brute will no doubt try to sway Cat’s good opinion, cast doubt on the man she has called friend and brother for more than twenty years, but she’s a formidable woman. Petyr almost feels sorry for the man.

When the two are out of sight, he abandons his post to duck into the service stairwell. The police can toss his home until they’re blue in the face. There’s nothing more for them to find. But it’s long past time he checked in on the girl for whom he committed murder.

* * *

The room she is shown into is dark, save for the light from a single lamp. Right away, Cat discerns that it must be Petyr’s private study. The ornately carved weirwood desk, the elegant lines of gold-lettered books, the soft leather of the chairs flanking the fireplace — it all screams of Petyr’s classical tastes. She takes the chair facing away from the light before the detective can indicate otherwise. She is not a suspect under investigation, and she will not be treated as such.

Drawing out a notepad and pen, Det. Royce grunts as he takes sinks into the other. “Mrs. Stark, you are the deceased’s sister, yes?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“And were you aware of any mental health issues your sister was having?”

“What issues wasn’t she having is a more apt question,” Cat scoffs, and the investigator’s look prompts her for more. “Lysa was always a little off. In and out of different treatments for depression, then bipolar disorder, obsessive compulsion, anxiety…” she trails off.

“What about addiction?”

The question takes her aback. “Addiction? I really couldn’t say. We usually only see each other two, maybe three times a year, and she wasn’t one to confide her problems in me. The few things I did hear usually came second hand through my brother, Edmure, or Petyr.”

“So Mr. Baelish acts as a go-between of sorts.” 

“I suppose,” she admits.

He hums as the pen glides along the page. “And how long have you known your sister’s husband?”

An odd question, but Cat sees no harm in answering it. “Almost all my life. We all grew up together. We were practically inseparable as children,” she explains.

“And have you ever felt that Mr. Baelish was taking advantage of your sister’s compromised mental state?”

“I’m sorry?” Affronted, Cat glares at the interrogator with deepening scorn. “Where exactly are you going with this line of questioning?”

The pad snaps closed as Det. Royce levels with her. “There are benzos hidden all over this house. It’s abundantly clear that your sister had a serious addiction problem, and I’m trying to determine just how much her husband knew about it. Because if he did know, and helped to feed her addiction, he can be held culpable in her death.”

“Then, please let me ask you a question, Mr. Royce,” she says, pointedly ignoring his rank, “If you’re so sure that Petyr knew about my sister’s problem, then why would the drugs be hidden at all?”

“Well that I couldn’t say,” states the detective, red-faced.

“Then let me clarify things for you. Addicts hide their addiction, especially from people they love. And Lysa loved Petyr to the point of obsession.”

* * *

The red splatter outside her window is nothing but a dark blotch in the snow, hardly visible now that night has fallen. She remembers rushing the ledge to see below, but Petyr caught her, dragged her away before she the body came into view. She appreciates him sparing her that nightmare now, even if she didn’t through the rising panic of the moment. All rationality tells Sansa that she should feel guilt or shame or sorrow at causing her aunt’s death, but there is only relief. Relief that it’s not her own blood decorating the two hundred foot drop below. 

The softest of tapping jerks her away from the window. “Come in.”

Her heart lifts at the sight of Petyr. His eyes are red and sunken, his clothes bedraggled, but there is the tiniest quirk to his lips, and she knows they’ve done well. She struggles not to go to him when the door latches, but given everything that’s happened today it strikes her as presumptuous to fly headlong into his arms. So, Sansa remains stationary by the window until she is confident they are on equal footing. 

It has only been three hours since they last spoke, last saw each other before the police forcibly separated them for questioning, but Petyr’s eyes assess her for some unseen injury. As though he is waiting for her to crumple beneath the weight of their lies. There is a softness, a concern to his voice as he finally asks, “How are you?” A simple inquiry on its surface, but wholly not under these circumstances.

Giving him a timid smile, “I’m okay.” Petyr looks doubtful, so she approaches him cautiously. Slow steps. “I really am.”

“And your…” He nods to the hands that are hidden up in the length of the sweater’s sleeves, not daring to indicate them aloud. The house is still full of strangers. Anyone could be listening in. She holds them out for him, palms up as he moves towards her. The flesh is raw and red and she had to scrub painfully to remove all the grit from her fall, but they’re still usable. The flesh will heal. “May I?” At her nod, he cups them in his own hands, gingerly pressing kisses to each fingertip. “I hate that you were hurt,” he whispers lowly between them.

“Better this than dead.” It’s meant to be lighthearted, but Petyr’s face grows more somber, and Sansa, in a determination to bring him back out of the dark, runs those freshly kissed fingers along the hollow of his cheek. “Are you okay?”

Closing the distance, his eyes shut as forehead meets forehead. He breathes her in before confessing, “I was scared, Sansa. I almost lost you today.”

“But you didn’t. I’m right here,” she soothes. Running her thumb over his bottom lip, “You saved me, Petyr.”

“And now, you’ve saved me,” he muses with a one-sided curl tilting his lips. “I suppose we’re even on that score.”

“I suppose we are.” And his arms finally, gratefully pull her flush. What sweet irony. For hours, she has been surrounded by men and women sworn to serve and protect, but it’s a murderer’s solid arms around her that make her feel safe. Holding her so close, she can taste the mint on him. Completely enthralled, she makes one pleading request against his lips. “Kiss me, Petyr.”

Her words are swallowed — her breath, her moans — as he drinks them down with abandon. His lips taste like home now — familiar and sweet — but all too soon it ends. Both of them coming to their senses, remembering all the the people beyond their solitary haven, the lack of privacy. They draw apart reluctantly to catch their breaths in separate corners of the room.

Petyr collapses at the edge of the bed, and a full minute passes before he speaks. “I almost forgot to tell you. Your mother is here.”

“Oh?” And she cannot fight the misery turning down her lips. If her mother is here then they don’t have much time. He looks as disappointed as she by the news, but they both know there is nothing to be done. Her leaving is inevitable. Fingers knitted at her waist, she paces. “So how did she take the news?”

“Surprisingly well.” Reclining against the headboard, he kicks one leg up and he sinks into the pillows. “She was more concerned about you if truth be told. She’d be up here now but for Detective Royce’s investigation.”

The tip of her thumb is thoroughly trapped between her teeth as moves about the room. “I didn’t like him. He seemed less concerned with my witness statement than trying to pin something on you.”

“Yes, I’d gathered that from my own interview,” he says adjusting his arm behind his neck. “Your Uncle Jon was one of his hunting buddies if I recall.”

“Did you-?” She cuts off her own question. Does she really want to know if her aunt was the first blood on his hands?

“No, sweetling. I may have planted a seed, but my hands are clean.” Sansa isn’t sure that makes it better, knowing how far he will go to get what he wants. And he’s so damn nonchalant about it, as though such dark deeds are common place for him. How many backs have been trampled upon to get to where he is? How much blood spilled? And more frighteningly, does she really care now that’s he shown he will spill it for her?

Before she can inquire further, there is a knock at the door. “Sansa, sweetie?” the delicate voice calls through the barrier. Petyr bounds off the bed to wile away in the corner, pretending to organize the bags she has there.

“Mom,” Sansa rushes her mother’s arms once the door is open, and despite her unsettled feelings about leaving, she cannot deny that it is comforting to see her.

“Oh, honey!” Cat coos, running a gentle hand over her face, tucking back her hair. “The detective just explained everything to me. Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she admits, and gives her mother a wan smile as she guides her mother over the threshold. Squeezing her hand reassuringly. “I mean, I’m not great, but I’m okay.”

“I never should have left you here, sweetie. If I had known Lysa was…” she trails off with a sigh before looking further into the room to see Petyr standing silently amid Sansa’s luggage. “Oh. I didn’t realize you weren’t alone.”

“I just came to let her know you’d arrived,” he explains, “and see if she needed any help gathering her things.”

“Always so helpful. Lysa was so lucky to have you,” she sniffs. “Listen, dear, the detective says we’re free to leave whenever you’re ready.”

Sansa glances over the bags around Petyr, and then up to his eyes. “I think I’m just about ready. There are a few things left in the bathroom that I need to grab,” she explains, “ but If you can take my rolling bag, I think I can get the rest.”

“Of course. I’ll heat up the car for us, but hurry up. I’d like to get back to Riverrun before midnight.” She plants a motherly kiss to her temple, whispering, “I called your father and let him know what happened. He’s very anxious to see you.”

“Thanks,” Sansa tells her softly. “I promise I won’t be long.” A pat to her cheek, and Cat takes the largest bag as Petyr hands it over to her.

Once the rumble of wheels fades into the distance, Sansa quietly shut the door behind her, letting her palms linger on the wood. “I guess this is it, then.”

Heat warms her back as he comes up behind her. A tug at her collar and his lips dance a path to her pulse. Pressing into the bruise there, his tongue is hot as it laps at her skin, setting fire to a familiar ache down low. She shivers, sinks into him, and feels him smile against her as his arms entwine around her waist. “Only for now,” he rasps conspiratorially into her neck.

Her finger reaches back to feel the roughness along his jaw. “You sound as though you’re planning something.”

“Maybe,” he hints.

“Tell me,” she says breathlessly.

“I was thinking…” And she can hear his smile. “Robin is quite a handful, and I’m so _very_ busy with my job. When school is out for summer, I could use a responsible, smart young woman to help keep an eye on him. Know anyone interested?”

“And here I’d thought you send him straight to boarding school,” she says facetiously, but his arms tighten around her.

A suggestive whisper blows into her ear, “Who says I’m not?” Oh. Sansa grasps his plan now. A whole summer with just she and Petyr, and Robin secretly tucked away. So many possibilities.

“Dad would rather die than let me,” she states emphatically, “but Mom could be convinced. She trusts you.”

“She really should know better,” he teases, but his tone grows serious. “Do you trust me?”

Turning in his arms, Sansa sees the earnestness creasing his brow. Can she trust him? This man that deceives, manipulates, and schemes against everyone around him. The sinister truth is she doesn’t know, but their fates are tied together now by blood and lies. Blood and lies and something more. She has no easy answer for him, so she kisses him sweetly, drawing it out until they have no choice but to part for air. Smiling coyly at him, she runs her hands along his chest. “Ask me again this summer.”


End file.
